It’s not often you’re told which orifice to stick your pen up during an interview with a pair of household-name stars.

But it happened with David Baddiel and Frank Skinner back in the heyday of the Fantasy Football TV show.

“What’s it like supporting Mickey Mouse clubs,” I joked, pointing out Chelsea hadn’t won the league since 1955 and West Brom since 1920.

The intention was to spark ­hilarious retorts which would make a good headline, but instead it drew some four-letter abuse, followed by a lecture on the definition of a Mickey Mouse club.

Who, I was asked, is more of a Disney joke – people like myself who follow a club which attracts hordes of plastic, out-of-town glory-hunters, or fans who follow solid teams like West Brom and Chelsea purely for love not trophies (This was 1998, Kids, okay)?

I’m guessing both would agree that, based on the Laws of Plasticity, ­Mourinho not Olsson, currently works at the home of the ­anthropomorphic rodent.

And not just because, in a bid to attract more US fans in 2007, the west Londoners were honoured with the title “official professional soccer club” of the Walt Disney Company after a tie-up with Mickey’s owners.

When you see how many managers Roman Abramovich has gone through in the past decade I bet West Brom’s boss Steve Clarke felt more part of a Disney circus during his time at Stamford Bridge than now at The Hawthorns.

But what does Mickey Mouse mean?

The last time I heard a ­professional player use it was Jack Butland in defence of Team GB before the ­Olympics.

“We are here to do business,” he said. “We are not a Mickey Mouse team.”

In other words you’re Mickey Mouse if you’re messing everyone around by treading water in a ­disinterested fashion.

In which case, Olsson has every right to put the yellow bootie on the other foot and call Jose Mourinho a Mickey Mouse manager.

The Special One says he’s the Happy One, but his glum face, bored body language and sad stunts give him the air of an old cartoon figure from a different era.

That dive into the crowd in front of Manuel Pellegrini after the winner against Manchester City seemed forced and ­undignified.

As did the derisory rubbing of Spurs’ noses when he pinched Willian from them, and the recent rolling out of the old chestnut about the fixture list being a conspiracy against him.

His post-match performance after West Brom smelt of a showman who is losing his spark.

The feigned outrage over suggestions it wasn’t a penalty, the claim that when he finally loses a league game at Stamford Bridge he’ll go for a celebratory meal, felt tired and limp.

The first time he was here, he was a demented Lenny Bruce on acid.

Now he sounds like an old vaudeville act re-cycling yesterday’s material.